War and Remembrance (100 page)

After weeks of wondering, here was a tumble of revelations for Victor Henry. So they had whisked him back from the Pacific to put him into landing craft production; an important but dreary BuShips job, a career dead end. The Standley request was just an unlucky complication. How to bring up the Nimitz dispatch at this point? Torpedo water!

“Well, Mr. President, this goes to my head a bit, being offered such a choice, and by you.”

“Why, that’s most of what I do, old fellow,” the President chuckled. “I just sit here, a sort of traffic cop, trying to direct the right men to the right jobs.”

Roosevelt said this with pleasantly flattering intimacy, as though he and Victor Henry were boyhood friends. Cornered though Pug was, he yet could admire the President. The whole war was on this aging cripple’s mind; and he had to run the country, too, and wrestle with a fractious Congress at every point to get things done. Harry Hopkins was growing restless, Pug could see. Probably some major meeting was scheduled next in this office. Yet Roosevelt could chat on with an anonymous midget of a naval captain, and make him feel important to the war. It was Pug’s way with a ship’s crew; he tried to give every sailor a sense that he mattered to the ship. But this was leadership magnified to a superhuman dimension, under unimaginable pressure.

It was very hard to cope with. It took all the willpower Victor Henry had, to remain silent under the scrutiny of those wise, weary eyes, two astrally remote sparks in a mask of intimate good fellowship. Mentioning the Nimitz dispatch was beyond him. It meant undercutting Carton and in a sense turning Roosevelt down flat. Let the President sense his hesitation, at least.

Roosevelt broke the slight tension. “Well! You’ve got to take ten days’ leave first, in any case. Show Rhoda a good time. Now that’s an order! Then,
get in touch with Russ Carton, and one way or another we’ll put you to work. By the bye, how’s your submariner?”

“He’s doing well, sir.”

“And his wife? That Jewish girl who was having difficulties in Italy?”

A drop in the President’s tone, a shift of his eyes to Hopkins, told Pug he was now overstaying his time. He jumped up. “Thank you, Mr. President. She’s all right. I’ll report in ten days to Admiral Carton. Thank you for lunch, sir.”

Franklin Roosevelt’s mobile face settled into lines that looked carved on stone. “Your letter from Moscow about the Minsk Jews was appreciated. Also your eyewitness report from the front to Harry. I read it. You proved right in predicting that the Russians would hold. You and Harry. A lot of experts here were wrong about that. You have insight, Pug, and a knack for putting things clearly. Now, the Jewish situation is simply terrible. I’m at my wits’ end about that. That Hitler is a sort of satanic person, really, and the Germans have gone berserk. The only answer is to smash Nazi Germany as fast as we can, and give the Germans a beating they’ll remember for generations. We’re trying.” His handshake was brief. Chilled, Pug left.

“If you think I’m a bold hussy, that’s too bad,” said Rhoda. “I’m just not easily discouraged.”

Logs were burning in the living room fireplace, and on the coffee table were gin, vermouth, the mixing jug, and a jar of olives; also a freshly opened tin of caviar, thin-cut squares of bread, and plates of minced onions and eggs. She wore a peach negligee. Her hair was done up, her face lightly touched with rouge.

“A beautiful sight, all this,” said Pug, embarrassed and yet stimulated, too. “Incidentally, the President sent you his best.”

“Oh yes, I’ll bet.”

“He did, Rho. He said you’re an elegant and pretty woman, and not easy to forget.”

Blushing to her eartips — she very rarely blushed, and it gave her a fleeting girlish glow — Rhoda said, “Well, how nice. But what happened? What’s the news?”

Over the drinks he gave her a deliberately laconic report. All Rhoda could gather was that the President had a couple of jobs in mind for him, and meantime had ordered him to take ten days’ leave.

“Ten whole days! Lovely! Will either job keep you in Washington?”

“One would.”

“Then that’s the job I hope you land. We’ve been separated enough. Too much.”

When they had eaten a lot of caviar, and finished the martinis, Pug was
in the mood, or thought he was. His first gestures were rusty, but this soon passed. Rhoda’s body felt delicious and exciting in his arms. They went upstairs to the bedroom and drew the blinds — which nevertheless let through much subdued afternoon light — and laughing at each other and making little jokes as they undressed, they got into her bed together.

Rhoda swept ahead with her old pleasing passionate ways. But from the moment he saw his wife’s naked body, for the first time in a year and a half— and it still seemed dazzlingly pretty to him — an awareness seized Victor Henry that this body had been penetrated by another man. It was not that he bore Rhoda a grudge; on the contrary, he thought he had forgiven her. At least now, of all times, he wanted to blot the fact out. Instead, with her every caress, her every murmured endearment, her every lovemaking move, he kept picturing her doing exactly this with the big engineer. It did not interfere with what was happening. In a way — in a pornographic way — that enjoyment even seemed to be enhanced, for the moment. But the end was faint disgust.

Not for Rhoda, though. She gave every evidence of ecstatic gratification, covering his face with kisses and babbling nonsense. After a while, yawning like an animal and laughing, she snuggled down and fell asleep. The sun coming through the crack in the curtains blazed a bar of gold on one wall. Victor Henry left her bed, shut out the sunlight, returned to his own bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. So he was staring when she awoke an hour later with a smile.

L
ESLIE
S
LOTE
woke in his old Georgetown flat, put on old trousers and a tweed jacket hanging in a closet he had locked away from subtenant use, and made toast and coffee in the airless little kitchen as he had done a thousand times. Carrying the old portfolio swollen with papers as usual, he walked down to the State Department in commonplace midwinter Washington weather; low gray clouds, cold wind, a threat of snow in the air.

It was like returning to normal life after a long illness. The sights and sounds and smells of upper Pennsylvania Avenue, in other times ordinary and dreary, were beautiful to him. The people who walked past him, Americans all, stared at his Russian fur hat, and this delighted him; in Moscow and in Bern nobody would have noticed. He was home. He was safe. Not since the start of the German march on Moscow, he now realized, had he drawn an easy breath. Even in Bern the pavement underfoot had seemed to quake to the near thump of German boots. But the Germans were no longer just beyond the Alps, they were an ocean away; and the Atlantic headwinds were roaring their icy throats out at other scared men.

The rash of small pillars all over the facade of the State Department building did not, this once, seem ugly to Slote, but quaint and naive and homey; an American architectural abomination, and therefore charming. Armed guards inside halted him and he had to draw a celluloid pass. This was his first brush with the war in Washington. He stopped in the office of the Vichy desk for a look at the confidential list of some two hundred fifty Americans, mostly diplomatic and consular personnel, confined in Lourdes.

Hammer, Frederick, Friends Refugee Committee

Henry, Mrs. Natalie, journalist

Houiston, Charles, vice consul

Jastrow, Dr. Aaron, journalist

Still there! He hoped the omission of the baby, as in the list at the London embassy, was an oversight.

“Well, here you are,” said the Division Director for European Affairs, standing up and scrutinizing Slote with an oddly excited air. Ordinarily he was a phlegmatic professional who had stayed cool and quiet even when they had played squash together years ago. In his shirt-sleeves, shaking hands
over the desk, he disclosed the beginnings of a pot belly. His handshake was sweaty and rather convulsive. “And here it is.” He handed Slote a two-page typed document scarred with red-ink cuts.

December 15, 1942 (tentative)

JOINT UNITED NATIONS STATEMENT ON

GERMAN ATROCITIES AGAINST JEWS

“What on earth is this?”

“A keg of dynamite, that’s what. Official, approved, ready to go. We’ve been at it day and night for a week. It’s all set at this end, and we’re waiting for confirming cables from Whitehall and the Russians. Then, simultaneous release follows in Moscow, London, and Washington. Maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

“Jesus, Foxy, what a development!”

People at State had always called the director Foxy. It was his nickname from Yale days. Slote had first encountered him as an alumnus of his secret society. Then Foxy Davis had seemed a debonair, remotely superior, and glamorous personage, a career Foreign Service officer just returned from Paris. Now Foxy was one among many men grayish of hair, face, and character who strolled State’s corridors in grayish suits.

“Yes, it’s a hell of a breakthrough.”

“Seems I’ve crossed the ocean for nothing.”

“Not in the least. The fact that you were coming”— Foxy jabbed a thumb toward the portfolio Slote had laid on the desk — “with that stuff gave us a lot of leverage. We knew from Tuttle’s memoranda what you were bringing. You served. And you’re needed here. Read the thing, Leslie.”

Slote sat down on a hard chair, lit a cigarette, and conned the sheets while Foxy worked on his mail, chewing his lower lip in his old way. Foxy for his part noticed Slote’s unchanged habit of drumming fingers on the back of a document as he read it; also that Slote looked yellow, and that his forehead was wrinkling like an old man’s.

The attention of His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom, of the Soviet Government, and of the United States Government has been drawn to reports from Europe which leave no room for doubt that the German authorities, not content with denying to persons of Jewish race, in all the territories over which their barbarous rule has been extended, the most elementary human rights, are now carrying into effect Hitler’s oft-repeated intention to exterminate the Jewish people in Europe. From all the countries Jews are being transported, irrcBpcctivo of ago and sox and in conditions of appalling horror and brutality, to Eastern Europe. In Poland, which has been made the principal Nazi slaughterhouse, the ghettos are being systematically emptied of all Jews except a few highly skilled workers required for war industries. None of those taken away are ever heard of again. The ablebodied are slowly worked to
death in labor camps. The infirm are left to die of exposure and starvation or are deliberately massacred in mass executions.

His Majesty’s Government in the United Kingdom, the Soviet Government, and the United States Government condemn in the strongest possible terms this bestial policy of cold-blooded extermination. They declare that such events can only strengthen the resolve of all freedom-loving peoples to overthrow the barbarous Hitlerite tyranny. They reaffirm their solemn resolution to ensure, in common with the governments of the United Nations, that those responsible for these crimes shall not escape retribution, and to press on with the necessary practical measures to this end.

Dropping the document on the desk, Slote asked, “Who made those cuts?”

“Why?”

“They castrate the thing. Can’t you get them put back?”

“Les, that’s a very strong document as it stands.”

“But those strikeouts are malevolent surgery. Reports
’which leave no room for doubt’
says that our government believes this. Why cut that?
’Irrespective of age and sex’
is crucial. Those Germans are exterminating women and children wholesale. Anybody can respond to that! Otherwise the thing’s just about ‘Jews.’ Far-off bearded kikes. Who cares?”

Foxy grimaced. “Now
that’s
an overwrought reaction. Look, you’re tired, and I think slightly biased, and —”

“Come on, Foxy, who made those cuts? The British? The Russians? Can we still fight?”

“They came from the second floor here.” A serious look passed between them. “I went to the mat on this, my friend. I headed off a lot of other cuts. This thing will make an explosion in the world press, Leslie. It’s been torture getting three governments to agree on the wording, and what we’ve ended with is remarkable.”

Slote gnawed on a bony knuckle. “All right. How do we back it up?” He tapped his portfolio. “Can I prepare a selection of this stuff to release with the statement? It’s hard confirmation. I can pull together a devastating selection in a few hours.”

“No, no, no.” Foxy shook his head. “We’d have to put all that on the wires to London and Moscow. Weeks could go by in more arguments.”

“Foxy, without documentation that release is just a propaganda broadside. Mere boiler plate. That’s how the press will take it. Milktoast stuff anyway, compared to what Goebbels puts out.”

The division director spread his hands. “But your material all comes from Geneva Zionists or London Poles, doesn’t it? The British Foreign Office raises its hackles at any Zionist material, and the Soviets foam at the very mention of the Polish government-in-exile. You know all that. Be practical.”